


No Cry

by TrekFaerie



Series: Dragon Meme: Kinkquisition [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bloodplay, Gen, Gore, Guro, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3094295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrekFaerie/pseuds/TrekFaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cole kills a bad man, and gets off on it. Iron Bull finds him after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Cry

**Author's Note:**

> "but i don't even like guro!" i say as i finally admit that i fucking like guro
> 
> kink meme fill: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/12149.html?thread=47740277#t47740277
> 
> Edit: Whoever wrote the pinboard fill did a WAY better job of writing the summary than I did (I suck at summaries so hard), so I changed it to that.

_He deserves it. He does. He deserves it._

The words repeat over and over in his mind. If he repeats them often enough, he thinks, he'll be less nervous. He won't worry about what needs to be done.

 _It_ does _need to be done._

Not every person who's come to join the Inquisition does so with noble intentions. Cole can ignore most of them-- the thrill seekers, those who want vengeance, those looking to make a name-- but he can't seem to ignore this one.

He's an Orlesian nobleman, a second son, who is, ostensibly, one of the name-makers. That's what he tells everyone, what everyone assumes. Cole knows the real reason. He hears it, crystal clear, screaming out every time he walks past him in the yard.

_Stained dresses, wet cheeks-- why are you crying, little girl? I thought you said you'd play with me. Do you not like my games? Shh, no crying, stay quiet, or I'll put you in the river and make sure you never come out--_

Bile rises in the back of his throat. It never used to do that, before. His heart never used to race, either. Not until he had one to race.

_He has to do this._

If he lets him be, he'll hurt people. He's not like Blackwall, doesn't want forgiveness. He doesn't think he's done anything wrong.

_He must._

He hears footsteps outside. He grips his daggers tightly, and steps back into the shadows as far as they'll take his human form.

The door open, and the man steps in, quietly. "Ma petite," he whispers, barely constrained glee in his voice. "Ma petite, where are you?"

The note in the nobleman's quarters will burn to ash before dawn, long before anyone hears of this.

(A simple magic trick of Dorian's. He'd agreed readily, when told he needed it to prank Sera.)

"Ma petite, why do you hide? Is this part of our game?"

It took him a long while to figure out what would make the man agree, to come to the battlements at night, with no questions.

(Later, he'll hide boiled sweets for the cook's daughter to find. In thanks. As apology.)

He steps out from the shadows. The man turns, too shocked to react so suddenly.

"Don't cry," he says. A warning. A reminder.

His blade strikes out, cutting a thin line across the man's throat. Thick red pours from the gash as he falls to his knees. 

He's not sure what makes him do it.

One second, he's staring down at the dying man, looking hard into his eyes for any sign of remorse. No one deserves to die without a chance for repentance. He looks for it, hopes for it. He's compassion.

Compassion drives a dagger blade right into the man's guts.

The blade goes in easier the second time, resistance gone as soft, warm, _human_ organs give way to cold steel. There's a watery moan, but no more; the first cut had severed his vocal cords. He'll be quiet. Nice and quiet.

He pushes his hand onto the darkening spots on the man's tunic, curls his fingers into the wounds. His nails catch on something, nearly pulls it out, but there's still far too much skin in the way. He cuts again, a sickle-shaped tear just above the hem of his trousers, and slick intestines fall readily into his waiting hands. He can feel the soft, butterfly-like thrum of a weakening heartbeat as he pulls them out, into his lap.

His vision blacks. He hasn't been breathing.

He inhales sharply, threading bloody fingers into his hair. He exhales, tightening them.

He wants to curl in on himself. Scream. Laugh. So many things at once.

He shoves his hands into the cavity he's made, up to the elbow, cracking bone, tearing meat, pushing up until he can go no further, until he's held a human heart in his hands-- so redder, so realer than a demon's-- and crushed it.

It lands with a thud in the destroyed torso.

He tries to stand, but a stabbing in his own guts knocks him back to his knees. He runs a hand down his chest until he finds a solid heat, pulsing in time with a racing heart. His trousers are warm and slick down his thighs

He'd been waiting, for this to happen. And it happens here.

"... Oh, shit."

His head jerks up.

The door is open. Why is it open? Everyone should be asleep. The only ones not sleeping are in the tavern, and they shouldn't--

He hadn't planned so carefully as he'd thought. The Iron Bull was standing in the doorway. Staring at him.

He bursts into tears. He's not really sure why, but it seems like the most reasonable thing to do, given the situation.

"No, no, kid... Ah, damn." He feels himself being lifted, feels the tears being wiped from his face with a large but incredibly gentle thumb. He opens his eyes and looks up, at the concerned expression, at the arms wrapped safely around him. He's sitting in his lap.

"He hurts little girls," he says. If anyone will accept his explanation as it is meant, The Iron Bull will.

He grunts low in his chest, then nods. "Not anymore. You made sure of that." His eye looks Cole up and down, taking in the blood and gore. "Anything else you want to talk about, kid?"

He cringes, tries to cross his legs, but a knee forces them apart again. "Don't tell anyone," he says, expression pained. "They won't... Not like you do."

"Kid, with your situation, I think people would be more surprised if you _didn't_ have some weird sexual shit going on. Everybody has, y'know... something they get a little--"

"Dragons?"

"-- And see, you probably got dirt on everybody already. Anyway, there's no judgment here. You just need to be more careful."

He shifts slightly. The hard warmth of The Iron Bull's chest is comforting. "I only kill those who deserve it," he says. "I won't ever kill anyone who doesn't. If you're worried."

"If I were worried, I'd be halfway to the Inquisitor's room by now, looking for someone to banish your crazy ass back to the Fade." It's a joke, but not really, so no one laughs. "Just calm down a little. You did your work. Let me take care of things..."

One of the hands that had been so safe around him moves down his body, peels away fabric made tacky by blood and come. He writhes when he feels a large hand around his cock, still hard from before. Panting wildly, he comes after barely being touched, gripping Bull's arms hard enough to crack a fingernail.

The Iron Bull plants a kiss in his hair, made tacky by blood. "There, kid. Breathe. Everything is gonna be fine."

"I need to... I need to clean it up, before..."

"Don't worry about it, kid. I can handle this."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it'll be fine. The Chargers are always up for hiding a body. As long as Skinner doesn't get too carried away, we'll be fine..."


End file.
